


And It's Not Because I'm Lonely, And It's Not Because We Have No-one Else

by CulDeSac



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Tea as a love language, also just so we're clear whenever i use the word 'touch' i mean it in the least sexual way possible, canon s4-untypical levels of communication, canon-typical comparisons between the lonely and depression, just a brief allusion but still, just one remark but in case anyone wants to avoid it, mentions of elias cw, oh also i suppose i should tag some self-deprecating comments from jon re: his scars, so i wrote the 1001st, the inherent romanticism of sitting at the kitchen table of The One You Love, while he packs his things to run away with you, you've read plots like this a thousand times already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CulDeSac/pseuds/CulDeSac
Summary: "I missed this," Jon found himself saying. And then, because it didn't seem like enough, "I missed you."I missed me as well, said Martin's face as he tugged at the teabag he was holding, again, and again, and again. He didn't look up to reply. "There wasn't a lot to miss, near the end.""Well, I still did."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 76
Kudos: 271
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	1. Chapter 1

The Lonely's fog felt wrong for all the wrong reasons, mused Jon on the way back. It didn't feel unsettling, to start with. Didn't dampen clothes and hair, didn't let in sharp, distracting cold. All it ever did was cling close - not too close, not to wear out its welcome, but close enough for its victim to forget what clear air tasted like. It was eerily fitting, Jon had to admit.

The truth about the fog, he was thinking, was that it never actually took anything away, never put more distance between people than there already was - it only obscured the view. Left the victim with faint memories of things and people which had disappeared behind the heavy grey curtain, things and people which might still be hidden somewhere in the ever-present nothingness.

Eventually though, staying aware of their lack becomes harder, and soon, even the memory fades away. Eventually, the fog is all there is.

Jon's fingers dug into Martin's sweater a little harder, giving his forearm a light squeeze.

"We're almost back," he said.

A few steps passed in silence, save for the rising wind and the distant crashing of the waves.

"Martin? Still with me?" Jon looked up. "We're al- Oh."

A tear, then another, rolled all the way down Martin's cheek and dropped from his chin, disappearing into the sand.

"It's okay, they're good tears." He shook his head before Jon managed to utter a question. "I'm just- I really didn't think I'd be coming back."

"I know." The fingers circling Martin's forearm tightened yet again.

"Thank you for finding me."

Jon tried to reply softly, but failed to prevent his voice from coming out choked. "Anytime," he said, and he meant it.

He watched as Martin wiped his cheeks with the free sleeve, wishing he had the courage to do it himself. For a couple of minutes, they walked in silence.

"Where are we going to end up?"

Jon sent him one last careful look, then replied, "In the Panopticon again, I think. This passage was the easiest one to See. We both went through it."

"Do you think Elias is still there?"

"I don't know." Jon patted his pocket hiding a tape recorder, whose familiar whirring had ceased since he and Martin had started going back home. The thing was still silent. "The tape recorder doesn't seem to think anything interesting is going to happen anytime soon, so I hope he's gone by now. Uh, either- either way," he faltered as grains of sand danced in the air, picked up by a gust of wind, "we're about to find out, actually."

The fog thickened around them one last time - the Lonely's last-ditch attempt to keep them in its clutches - and then, with the final blow of the wind, they were out. Single grains of sand fell out of their hair and clothes, disappearing completely before they hit the stone floor. Shaking off the dizzying, lingering touch of the domain, Jon looked around.

The Panopticon was empty. Dead silence affirmed they were safe to keep running - and Jon didn't need to be told twice.

"Come on," he said, tugging on Martin's arm and heading for the tunnels, his eyes darting around for any sign of Jonah Magnus. Luckily, there were none.

They ran off, and didn't look back.

* * *

The trapdoor between the tunnels and the archives was hanging miserably on just one hinge. Whatever happened between the Hunters, Not-Sasha, Basira and Daisy, left the place a mess. Loose sheets of paper were scattered all over the floor, stained with blood more often than not, and the floor itself, as well as the walls, had been marked by scratches, bullet holes, and knife slashes.

"Oh god..." Martin whimpered. "Not-Sasha did all that, didn't she? Jon, I'm sorry-"

"Not just her," Jon cut him off quickly. "Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk showed up out of nowhere, too. It was- Nobody could have seen that coming. And we would have been in trouble either way."

Martin let out an unconvinced sound.

"Peter had a Leitner. Let her escape," he said. "I could have run after it and warned you, but I still had to pretend I didn't care about what happened to you to see what he was really planning-"

"I understand," Jon cut him off again, gently but firmly.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

Martin sighed. "What about the others?"

"I don't know yet." Jon shook his head. "Daisy and Basira were taking care of the situation, told me to leave them. If we don't hear from them soon, I'll try to Know how they are, but I'd rather not do it just yet. We wouldn't be of much help to them right now anyway. Not after..." He waved his hand around in a vague motion. "All of this, really."

"Right."

"But no matter what happened, it's not on you, Martin, alright?"

"...Alright," he sighed again. Jon decided to be satisfied with the answer. He watched Martin's empty eyes sweep the room, when suddenly, he turned to face him again. "Actually... What about Melanie? You didn't men- Oh god, why are you looking at me like this? Is she-"

"She's fine, she's fine," Jon interrupted immediately. "She..." He hesitated. But there was no gentle, roundabout way to say it. "She's not here anymore. She quit."

For a fraction of a second, Martin looked confused. And then he remembered.

"Oh god... Sh- She really..? How d- No, I don't want to know." He shook his head. "...When?"

"Not long after I told you it was possible. She was glad she'd done it, though. She's happy. And... she and Georgie are actually together now, apparently. So it'll be fine. They both will."

Martin stayed silent.

Jon could almost see - lowercase "see" - the thoughts running through his head. Melanie had quit. Daisy and Basira were both injured in the best case scenario, dead in the worst. And of course, there was still Elias, who... well.

He lay a tentative hand on Martin's shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I know it's a lot to take in."

Especially after the Lonely, he thought, watching Martin nod and drop his eyes to the floor. He seemed to struggle with the idea of wanting to care again, not certain how to handle his worry stretching over more and more people.

"No, I'll be okay," he said, "it's just- How do we even begin to deal with all this? What are we going to _do_?"

Jon was asking himself the same thing, with little to no results. The stay in the Lonely hadn't been nearly as draining as those three days spent in the Buried, but it had still been far from inconsequential.

"I think we're safe to stay here for a little while," he decided.

"No, I was thinking about later." Martin turned a nervous look towards the door. "I mean, it's still the Institute. We'd better get out of here."

"I know, but- I don't know what to do yet. We'll figure something out, I promise, I just... I need a second." He felt his hand gripping Martin's shoulder a little tighter than intended, which earned him a concerned look.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'll be fine in no time. Really."

Of course Martin, being Martin, didn't take it for an answer. "Maybe you should sit down," he insisted, already reaching for a chair, worrying as if it was Jon who had nearly just resigned himself to staying in the Lonely forever.

"I'm just a bit drained of energy, that's all. It'll pass soon."

"Alright. Sure. I definitely believe you, Jonathan 'I accidentally stabbed myself with a bread knife' Sims."

Jon almost missed the desk he was trying to lean against.

There were so many pieces of Martin which he hadn't seen in over a year. Pieces which, hopefully, Martin would choose to retrieve from where the fog had used to be, as he'd try to patch up the new Martin with bits of the old Martin and figure himself out anew, piece by piece. Jon was fully expecting to see him do just that - smile again, worry again, nervously joke again and occasionally be a little bitchy again. And he was going to give him a warm welcome.

What he was _not_ expecting to see, however, was Martin openly _teasing_ him. And frankly, he found this brand new experience delightful.

"I- Uh. _Hey,_ " he uttered. _Welcome back. I missed you._ "Low blow, Martin."

"Eloquent retort." Martin pushed the chair towards Jon.

"I'm telling you the truth, but fine. Fine." He rolled his eyes theatrically. "There. I'm sitting. Happy?"

"Yes, I am."

"Great."

"Indeed."

Martin kept an eye on him, though, as if Jon was already thinking of nothing else but planning a prison break. He pulled up a chair for himself and sat down no more than an arm's reach away.

"Now that I'm under professional observation," started Jon, noting with a certain amount of satisfaction that Martin shook his head with a tiny, exasperated smile, "how are _you_ feeling?"

He seemed taken aback by the question. Jon noticed him absentmindedly picking on the thick woolen threads of his sweater. "Hm. I feel..." He paused and frowned. "Like everything I've nearly given up for the Lonely is slowly catching up to me. And when it fully does, I'll probably cry for three days straight to let it all out. And in a way, I'm looking forward to it, I think."

"I'd say that's a good thing, considering."

"Yeah." Martin's smile was tired, but it was there. "Yeah, I think so too."

The smile which came as a response was probably even weaker. But it was there as well.

Jon sank deeper into the chair, resting his head in his hand, and closed his eyes. He didn't expect to rest, though. Now that the thought of getting away from the Lonely and the Panopticon temporarily retreated into the back of his mind, another one swiftly took its place. Jon was exhausted, but still humored it. It would be hard to ignore with Martin sitting half a meter away, anyway.

The thought was: "Love beats the Lonely".

There is no other way, is there? Not one that the victim is in control of, at least. Except love is a broad term, and every type of it could prove itself capable of bringing people back, provided it was strong enough. Love that is present, here and now, could do it. As could love that is a memory of what was, or love that is a flicker of hope for what might once be. Love that is wistfulness about what could have been. Love for a partner, for a family member, for a friend. And Jon not only couldn’t be sure what was it that Martin felt that had pulled him out, but also whether it would still be welcome by him now that he was better, and back in the real world. He couldn’t be sure Martin would want to _choose_ him again.

Jon wanted to believe he would. But to be able to give it proper attention, he preferred to make sure both he and Martin would still be alive and safe for this first.

He was aware he'd told himself the same thing before the Unknowing, and how _that_ had turned out. But this time, it was different. Besides, he'd already asked Martin to run away with him - three times within one conversation, in fact. It hadn't exactly been the subtlest of proposals. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts rather violently by the sound of Martin's voice.

"Jon?" Martin, now standing above him, patted his shoulder to get his attention. "Sorry, do you- do you mind if I walk around for a while?"

Jon leaned back slightly to look up at Martin. It seemed like a weird thing to ask for in such an apologetic tone, but he tried not to show that he thought so. "Wh- Not at all, why would I?" 

"I mean- Sometimes it irritates people that I do that when they want some piece and quiet, that's all," he said. There was something heartbreaking hidden in his reply which Jon might have caught if he was less tired.

"I'm sorry," said Jon. He raised his hand from the desk, watching it closely. The shaking had got weaker. "I know you want to get out of here already. A couple more minutes and I'll be ready to go."

"What? Ah, no, it's... not that." This time Jon's puzzlement must have been obvious. Martin looked torn, but finally, he explained, "I just didn't want to stay put for too long. In the Lonely, if you stand too still or walk too slow, it only makes it easier for the fog to catch up."

 _Oh_.

Of course shaking off the Lonely's influence wouldn't be so simple. It would have been naive of Jon to think otherwise. But Martin was _safe_ here, as long as he wanted to stay out and as long as Jon was there to keep an eye on him, and Jon wasn't worried about either.

On a second thought, though, there was one thing it wouldn't hurt to check.

"Let me see something." Jon stood up. He rested his hands on Martin's shoulders, stretching himself up to take a good look into his eyes.

"You didn't manage to sit still for five whole minutes," protested Martin, but whether he realised it or not, his hands were already resting on Jon's elbows, making their position an almost-hug. "What is it?"

"Just making sure," murmured Jon. "Your eyes were foggy back there, you know? In the Lonely. You looked like you could barely see."

Martin frowned. "Sounds about right, I guess. In a... ironically poetic way," he said through a wry smile. For a while, he watched as Jon's eyes scanned his own. "And now?"

"Nothing," announced Jon. "It's gone, Martin. It really is."

"I was in pretty deep, though."

"You were," he agreed. "But for now, we _made it out_."

Martin didn't exactly smile. But he seemed less worried and less sad, and didn't insist on having a walk around the room anyway. It was good enough.

Jon squeezed Martin's shoulder reassuringly, his head tilted to the side - a gesture usually meaning he was reconsidering something. "You know what, never mind resting here," he said eventually. "I'll be fine. Let's just g-"

The door to the archives squeaked open, cutting him off, and a third voice came from across the room. "You found him, then.“

"Jesus!"

Two pairs of arms instantly crossed in front of their owners' chests like they belonged to embarrassed teenagers.

"Basira, never, _ever_ scare us like that ag-" Jon stopped, sighed, composed himself and continued. "What happened here? Are you and Daisy all right?"

Basira's face wore a heavy expression, but Jon had spent enough time with her to recognise the exhaustion hiding behind it. She shrugged her bloody jacket off and threw it onto the nearest chair, approaching the two.

"Things got... messy," she said simply. Her eyes wandered around the room, grave and focused. "As soon as you ran off, Daisy, she... chose to protect me. Protect all of us."

Jon's expression fell.

"She..? Oh, Daisy..." He ran both hands across his face, mumbling a swear into them. "Daisy..."

Basira watched him, her expression unchanging. "That's gonna be it for her, isn't it?" she said, grimly.

"Probably, yes," he nearly whispered. The silence between them said the rest. "Are the other Hunters..?"

"Dead? I don't know. Probably. They all started running, eventually. The monster knew better than to try to fight a– a Hunter, and managed to escape. Daisy chased after the other two, and I fell behind. It was pointless, trying to keep up with her... like that," Basira finished lamely. "So I came back here to make sure at least you two would make it out all right."

"Basira, I'm so s-"

"We don't have time for this, Jon," she cut him off before he could finish the sentence. "Is Lukas still in there?"

"Dead," he replied simply, hoping it would be enough for now. He didn't imagine Basira would be thrilled to learn he'd just discovered he could kill people. If she was suspicious, though, she didn't show it. Apparently it was all she needed to know.

"And Magnus?" she asked.

"I'm- not sure," Jon said cautiously. "We haven't seen him. But I can't... Know exactly where he is. It's like he can resist it."

"Fantastic,“ she hissed, rolling her eyes. "Alright, then. Listen. I had a while to think on my way back. I have a plan and you two are gonna _stick to it_. You need to get the hell away from here as soon as possible."

"Yes, we were going to-"

"Not just the Institute, Jon. London. Oh- don't look at me like that, neither of you is safe here. Maybe not even there," she admitted after a second thought, "but it's better than nothing."

"Wait, wait, hold on," heard Jon to his left. Martin spoke for the first time since Basira walked into the room. "We're supposed to leave everything and flee? Just like that?"

"What, like you have anything more pressing keeping you here?"

"Basira..." started Jon in a 'try to give him a break' sort of tone.

"I'm sorry, Jon, but I don't exactly have time to give you both a kiss on the forehead and say everything will be okay," she retorted. "Unless you think the police will decide that neither a person who's already been a murder suspect before, nor Peter Lukas' personal assistant could possibly have had anything to do with his disappearance."

She was right, of course. For a few seconds, all three of them fell silent. Jon's eyes dropped to his fingers soundlessly tapping on the desk in a nervous twitch. "When you said we might not even be safe 'there' you meant..?"

"One of Daisy's safehouses. I've already written the directions down." She took a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to Jon. "Pretty much all of your stuff is here in the Archives, right?"

"Pretty much," echoed Jon, glancing over Basira's rushed handwriting. Slim letters at the bottom of the piece of paper spelled 'Scotland'.

She nodded. "Good. Pack your things and go. You've been on the run before, you know what to do. More or less," she said. "And you'll learn," she added, looking at Martin.

"What about you?"

"I'll stay." Her voice didn't invite discussions. "I'll keep an eye on the situation, stay in touch with you. And... I made Daisy a promise I intend to keep."

Jon made a pained expression. "Can I ask what it was?"

"She asked me to kill her after all this was over."

"Right." The word was no more than a whisper.

To his left, Jon heard Martin speak up again. "Basira, if there's anything we can do-"

"There isn't," she said firmly. "There's only one thing left that anyone can do for her, and it's keeping my promise."

Martin closed his mouth. One day he might have argued, insisted there must be something someone can do - not because he suddenly thought of Daisy as his friend, but because he hated being helpless. But it seemed to be too much for him now.

"Right. Now, about my plan." Basira turned towards Jon again. Her next words sounded like she was reciting instructions from memory. "Go to your office with Martin and pack your stuff. I'll keep watch here, in case someone eventually calls the police and they arrive while you're still in the building. The sectioned officers will definitely want to talk to me first, because it'll be the easiest interrogation, so I'll stall for as long as I can. And then I guess I'll tell them I never saw you two leave the tunnels, which should buy you a good couple of hours, so don't waste them. When you're done, don't return here. Leave out the back." Jon nodded as she counted one order after another on her fingers. How well did she have it all thought out? " _Don't_ take your car, take Daisy's. She... Well. Let's just say no-one in the police will try to track it. And even if they do, she made sure it won't be easy." Jon grimaced, but it escaped Basira's attention. "Plus, they still think she's gone, so it's not like anyone will have any reason to look for it anyway. I used it sometimes, but... since we all stopped leaving the Institute, it's pretty much just been sitting in the parking lot. The keys are in my desk. Finally..." she sighed, searching her thoughts for anything she might have forgotten, "leave as soon as possible, and when you're there, contact me. From a phone box, of course. And keep your heads down. Got it?"

Jon discovered he didn't even feel too overwhelmed by the news. But, to be fair, it was _far_ from the most overwhelming thing that had happened to him this day. He glanced up at Martin, who gave him a slight nod.

Alright then.

"Thank you, Basira." He turned to her. "We owe you."

"Just try not to die in return," she said as if Jon needed reminding. He couldn't blame her, though. "Now _go._ "

It felt weird, Jon thought, walking away. Like someone should have said something more, should have explained things better or said a proper goodbye or simply talked about everything that had just happened. Instead, he and Martin nodded and headed towards Jon's office, leaving Basira behind.

* * *

After a short debate over who was less likely to kill them both while driving, Martin got behind the wheel. ("Yes, Jon, I am tired, but at least _I_ can say when the last time I drove a car was," he said. Jon tried to argue that it wasn't _that_ bad, that he'd had a few opportunities to drive since the coma, but Martin did have a point. Plus, they were going to his flat, so it was more convenient anyway.)

Jon stared out of the window, hearing his bag slide from one side of the boot to another every time the car took a sharp turn. Martin wasn't really a reckless driver; still, he didn't exactly fit the overly careful image Jon had created in his mind, either. It felt nice to get to verify it, he thought, filing away the piece of information as A New Thing I've Learned About Martin. He supposed there were many more to come. Some would come naturally, while some... well, some of them they'd just have to talk about.

They'd left Basira and hadn't really discussed anything since then, not properly. Jon had simply thrown all his most necessary possessions into a travel bag, just like he'd done after he woke up from the coma and practically moved into the archives. And then they'd left, stopping only to withdraw as much cash as they were allowed to do at once. Now they were going to go to Martin's, pack his things, and then drive on and on, until they reached a small house in the middle of nowhere, where they were going to live.

An actual, everyday life. Together. And topics like this don't just resolve themselves.

There were questions Jon wanted to ask. _Are you really okay with this? What do you think about running away with me this time? Do you feel the same way I do about us being alone together? We've both changed a lot - do you want to catch up?_

He _wanted_ to ask them, just not right now. In the safehouse, perhaps, when things were less crazy.

Between one thought and another, he became aware of Martin taking his eyes off the road to glance at him. After the third time it happened, when Jon was certain it was deliberate, he turned to face him.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes, uh-" Martin shot him a quick, sheepish smile, remembering to look straight ahead again. "I just- Scotland, huh?"

Jon tried and failed to read his tone. "I'm sorry," he risked eventually. "I know it's very sudden. Even for me, and I'm- I should be used to stuff like this by now."

"No, no, it's not wh- You apologize too much, you know?"

Jon wouldn't know what to say to it even if he felt like Martin expected an answer. The words touched something buried way too deep inside his mind for them not to hurt; like a hand digging into his head to hold some small, suffocating part of it in its embrace, but scratching its sharp fingernails against everything that lay on its way to do so. Somewhere within the past seven months Jon had forgotten there was an alternative to always feeling like he didn't apologize _enough_.

Martin carried on talking, entirely unaware of how effortlessly he reached right into Jon.

"I mean, it's... fine, I think?" he said. "I'm not sure I've processed it all yet, to be honest. Feels like we, I don't know, went to get groceries or something."

Jon recovered just enough to utter, "Groceries?", earning a deep sigh in response.

"Don't smirk at me like that, you know what I mean."

"You didn't even look at me," he pointed out, smirking harder. He was enjoying Martin's newly-discovered fake-exasperated voice way too much.

Martin clicked his tongue. "You have an _audible_ smirk, though. It's very loud. The whole street must have heard it."

Jon laughed under his breath, shaking his head. It was true, though - this whole situation did feel relatively normal. In comparison to the rest of the day, at least. Not that doing something as casual as buying groceries with Martin would feel anywhere close to normal by now, but the point still stood.

"So you're not scared?"

Martin shook his head. "I am, a bit. But I know I should be, so while it's not, well, _pleasant_ , it feels right," he said. "You know what's _actually_ scary? When you're aware you should feel something, but you don't. And you're not even anxious about it, which only makes the knowledge that something's wrong intensify, but you still don't _feel_ it."

"Because why would it matter, when there's just you," guessed Jon.

"Yeah."

There was a bit of silence, sliced by the ticking of the turn signal. Martin leaned forward, looking past Jon, checking if the road was clear; his eyes reflected the cloudy sky, filling up with fog-like grey.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to make it depressing."

"No, it's-" Jon protested gently. " _I'm_ sorry, Martin. About... all of it, everything that happened after the Unknowing. It was never meant to go that wrong."

"Some of these things happened because I wanted them to," came a numb reply. "We all made choices. Me included."

"Can I ask why?"

"Could we talk about it later?" Martin replied immediately, faster than he ever would if he actually considered the options.

"I mean, we don't have to talk about it at all," Jon backed out. "You're right, I should have- It's a really personal-"

"No, I will tell you... I _want_ to tell you, actually, I kind of want to- explain? Why things were the way they were, and what my plan with Peter was, and... some other things as well. Just not right now. When our situation is a bit less crazy."

"Right. Of course."

 _Some other things as well,_ echoed through Jon's mind. Naturally, he longed to know the answer _now,_ but at least it felt good, having the reminder that from time to time, he still longed for answers in a human way.

"What I was doing didn't start out as a plan, though," said Martin after a while of silence. "But you already know some of it, don't you? I mean, you must have talked with Basira after you came back, you must have wanted answers."

"She did tell me some of it," admitted Jon. "That's how I knew about your mother."

"Yeah, I figured. I can tell you about _that_ part of things now, if you want."

"If _you_ want."

Martin fell silent again, considering Jon's words - _really_ considering them. With a sigh, he seemed to have come to a decision.

"After the Unknowing, it was Basira who called me, you know?" he started slowly, guardedly. "Said she didn't want Elias to be the one to break it all to me. Didn't really make it better, though." A mirthless, pained laugh escaped his mouth. "She told me which hospital they were taking you to, and that with Tim, there wasn't even a body to take care of. I went to see you, of course. And... there you were, lying on the hospital bed, but it felt like you were already gone. Just like everyone said. I asked the nurse if they could call me if you woke up, but she started talking about emergency contacts and asking what my relationship to you was, and I sort of gave up, because what was I supposed to say. I still visited, though."

It hurt, the way Martin described things he'd gone through so matter-of-factly, like everything he'd felt back then got locked away inside of these memories, shrouded by fog, and he couldn't quite reach it. He didn't even sound like he was talking to Jon, specifically. It seemed like simply saying the words out loud carried relief, and everything Martin needed was just one person to become a vessel through which the world heard him, through which the world _knew_. 'I am Martin Blackwood,' he was saying, 'I went through those things, and they hurt. I want it to be known by someone; _anyone_.' And Jon didn't doubt he might have been the first person to ever hear it. 

"Then there was Tim's funeral," Martin continued. Something inside Jon's stomach twisted. "I didn't really attend, though. I mean, I drove to the cemetery, and I found the spot where it was taking place... But then I saw all his family and friends crowded around the grave, and I thought, 'What am I doing? I don't belong here, with them. I wasn't a part of his life like they were, not really.' So instead I waited until the funeral was over, and didn't walk up to the grave until the last people left. Tim's name was there, etched into the tombstone, with 'Daniel Stoker' and some other Stoker's name above his."

Jon thought about the difference it would have made if he'd been awake then. Martin wouldn't have had to stand over Tim's grave alone, for a start. Maybe by then, Jon would have acted on what he'd known about Martin's feelings, so if Martin had needed, Jon might have hugged him, or stroked his arm, or at least held his hand.

He could do these things now, of course, but there wasn't a gesture he could think of that wouldn't have to be preceded by an explanation of what it really meant, coming from him, and a question if he was allowed to do it. And if he thought ten minutes ago had been a bad time to have this conversation, then now was an even worse.

So Jon didn't move. And Martin kept talking, stopping the car at a red light.

"It mostly just felt ironic," he said, his eyes stubbornly not meeting Jon's. "A bit over a year before there'd been four of us, and now there was only me, alone. And it's not that I wasn't used to the feeling - but the way it happened felt like... a really cruel joke. I actually _outlived_ all three of you. It's- it's just not something that a thirty-year-old person should be able to say." With the last sentence, Martin's voice trembled with... bitterness? Resentment? A grudge? Jon wasn't certain, but the change in his voice seemed like a good sign nonetheless. "And then my mother died. So when Peter suggested I could work for him... It didn't even feel like an agreement to become alone. It felt like letting go of the illusion that I hadn't already. That I wasn't _always_."

It was hard to be patient, Jon thought, choking back words like "not anymore" or "but I'm here now". As usual, he wanted to take matters into his own hands and fix them himself, personally ensuring they improve _now_. Recovering from the Lonely didn't work like this, though. It had to happen entirely on Martin's terms.

Jon glanced to his right, simply watching Martin drive for a while.

"I wish I could have been there to help," he said eventually.

"I know," came a quiet reply. And then, "Me too. But when you could, you did. Just like with Melanie and Daisy."

It was true, of course, even if helping Melanie and Daisy had been something entirely different.

"Either way, now you know," Martin sighed, punctuating the sentence with a short, nervous laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Like I said, there's more I intend to tell you, but..."

"Not now."

"Not now," he confirmed, nodding.

Martin didn't seem to regret sharing, noted Jon, stealing one more glance towards the driver's seat. Another small but undeniably good sign to add to the list.

The short, remaining part of the ride passed in thoughtful silence.

* * *

They moved about by the door, panting and hanging their coats. ("Lives in a flat on the fifth floor, but the lift is broken," added Jon to his list of newly learned things.) Martin glanced further into the room, a sheepish look crossing his face.

"Sorry, I know the flat is not in the best condition..." he stumbled over his words and fell silent for a second. "I've mostly just- slept here for a while now, you know how it was. I've been planning to do things like dusting for..."

Silence again. Martin stood in the narrow hallway looking slightly lost, as if he hadn't left this very flat for work just a couple of hours before.

"I didn't even realize when it got so dusty," he chuckled in that awkward, apologetic manner of his. "It's not like I wanted it to. Just like I didn't– I didn't want this pile of clean laundry to stay here for so long, or the plant to die, it's just... I was too slow. I did tell myself to take care of it all, I even _wanted_ to, for some time, until..." He sighed. "Until one day, I didn't."

Jon wasn't even sure if Martin expected an answer from him. Just like in the car, all he seemed to need was to say certain things out loud in the presence of another human being. To simply be heard and acknowledged.

Once again, Jon was left wondering exactly how much Martin had suffered without anyone knowing.

"I understand," he risked a reply.

"Alright." It was hard to tell whether it was what Martin needed to hear. "Alright." He mustered a half-hearted smile and said, in a slightly more present voice, "Come on, let's not just stand here, you must want to sit down."

Jon followed him across the hallway.

The living room took up a half of what must have been the biggest room in the flat, while the rest of it was occupied by the kitchen. Jon slumped into a kitchen chair closest to him, assuring Martin that no, really, he didn't need to take the couch, and besides, knowing himself, he was going to get up in a second and start pacing around anyway. He often did that when he was agitated. (Jon realised it wasn't going to happen just a second later, as he rested his head in his hands, suddenly feeling like he might collapse if anyone so much as nudged him. For the next couple of minutes standing up on his own two feet was not going to be an option.)

"Fine," Martin gave up. "I'll be back in a while, then," he said, nodding at the door. "If you want anything to eat or drink in the meantime..."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Right. I'm not carrying you to the car if you pass out from exhaustion and dehydration, though." There he was again, thought Jon, huffing out a laugh. "If you change your mind, just be my guest."

And with that, he was gone, while Jon sat at Martin's kitchen table, in Martin's flat, waiting for Martin to pack up so they could run away together to the other side of the country, as if things like this had any right to just happen.

In the soft silence and with no company it was easier to remember why they were running away in the first place, though. What they were running _from_ , and what they had to lose. Except the truth was, they weren't going to be safe anywhere, not really. Everything the distance could offer them was some borrowed time, a while to breathe, maybe a head start when they inevitably had to start running again, whether it'd be sooner or later. There was no point in dwelling on it. And so Jon just shook his head, forcing himself out of the spiral of worry before it properly began.

He looked around, searching for things to latch onto and distract himself. For the first time since he'd crossed the threshold, he actually paused to consider the fact that he was in Martin's _home_. This was where Martin led his life; not the work-related one, the only one that Jon knew him from - his _real_ life. (The kind of everyday life Jon was soon going to take part in, in a way.)

And yet, it didn't feel like his home.

The flat _did_ look lived-in - it was just that some parts of it had less Martin's presence about them than his old desk in the archives. From where Jon was sitting, one of the few exceptions to this that he could spot was the fridge door, with countless pieces of paper held in place by countless magnets. Layers and layers of thorough documentation of Martin's life's past few months. The newest ones consisted mostly of colorful post-it notes covered in his handwriting. From beneath them peeked out older memories - one that looked like a funeral announcement and one other piece of paper with a concise message and an official-looking stamp, which might belong a hospital or a care home. Jon didn't see the details, of course, nor did he want to.

He wondered idly what the flat had looked like a bit over a year before, and let his thoughts wander from there.

It might have been fifteen minutes since Martin had left, when Jon became aware of the sound of a suitcase being wheeled through the hallway.

"You're ready then?" he said, as Martin passed by the kitchen door.

"Huh? Oh, no, that's pretty much just clothes and a toothbrush. I still have to get the rest."

Jon was forced to reconsider the fact that he himself had been fully ready to flee to Scotland with pretty much just clothes and a toothbrush.

"I'm thinking sticking plasters, extra blankets, towels, soap, stuff like this," said Martin. "I mean... it's Daisy's safehouse. As far as we know, it might be just four bare walls and knives hidden beneath floorboards."

"Oh. Right."

"Then I'll have to see if I have any food we could take with us-"

Jon missed half of the sentence, occupied by the realisation of how much more present Martin sounded - having a task he needed to focus on and plan out clearly helped. It almost seemed as if he genuinely didn't mind leaving all his current life behind. Well, all his current life apart from Jon and a few most necessary possessions.

He allowed himself a moment to recover from the full blow of this thought's possible implications.

"And I know it's not really our highest priority, but," continued Martin, "we might have quite a lot of time to kill there, actually."

"Well... yes." Jon couldn't deny he'd thought about it too.

"So I just thought... There's a bookcase in my bedroom, and if you want to take a look and grab something for yourself..?"

It was a great idea, actually, and Jon made a point of saying so as he stood up from the table.

"The room's across the hallway, to the left," said Martin.

It did feel strangely private, of course; being invited to other people's bedrooms always did. (Just one of the thoughts Jon never really expressed out loud. The number of disclaimers like, "I mean it like when someone shows you around their house" he'd consider necessary to recite alongside it might make certain things too obvious. And unless someone actually _needed_ to know, he simply didn't see the point of unnecessary sharing.)

Seeing someone else's bedroom was about something entirely different than that, though - it was about entering the place where they were at their most defenseless, about learning their definition of safety and comfort. It was about seeing what they kept on their nightstands, what items they reached out for as soon as they woke up, and what things they put away last before falling asleep.

That's what made Martin's empty nightstand and bare walls such a sad sight, thought Jon, standing in the doorway. He shouldn't have been surprised, really, and yet...

And yet.

With a sigh, he walked up to the bookcase and scanned it from top to bottom, taking a few minutes to examine the titles and read some blurbs. There were maybe four or five books which he could imagine sitting on his own shelves. (Him and Martin were so different from each other, after all, he couldn't help thinking.) He picked two of them, ignoring the rest, instead going for a couple of paperbacks completely unfamiliar to him, simply out of curiosity.

In the hallway, a backpack with some room left for the books was already waiting next to the suitcase. Leaning against it was a linen bag containing two bottles of water, a pack of biscuits, and one or two more items hidden deeper down.

Well. That was it, then. They were ready to go.

With a sigh, Jon knelt down and started packing the books.

A minute or so later, sounds of his struggle with the backpack drew Martin from the kitchen. Slow, hesitant, careful footsteps shuffled around, eventually stopping somewhere in the doorway behind Jon's back. He hadn't used to walk like this, Jon thought. He hadn't used to stifle every proof he still existed.

"Found something you like?" Martin asked.

"Oh, that's what I'm hoping to find out." Another book landed safely in the backpack. "I've never read any of these."

"Don't you want to just Know what they're about to make sure?"

"But where would be the fun in that," Jon heard himself smile.

Besides, it seemed more sensible to try not to Know things for now. But it was one of those conversations that could safely wait until they were in Scotland.

"Jon, listen..."

"Hm?" He squeezed the last two books into the backpack.

"Can we stay here for a while longer?"

Jon turned around, puzzled. But no, Martin seemed fine, mostly, in a way that none of the things that were wrong were out of the ordinary. Which in their cases was usually good enough.

"...Is everything alright?"

"I'll be fine." Martin shook his head. "It's all just... a lot to take in, I suppose. Guess I'm not really used to things happening at this pace anymore, you know."

"Oh- right." Just another thing they were polar opposites at, he thought, looking back at the past seven months - with Martin slowly growing more and more resigned, while Jon regularly threw himself headfirst into danger. "Right, of course. We'll stay."

"Thank you."

Martin stepped closer, reaching out his hand, and helped Jon up. "Come on. Let's not just stand here," he said, leading back into the kitchen.

Following him, Jon found himself glad they'd get to spend a bit more time in the serene quiet of Martin's flat.

"I don't think we have to worry about staying longer, though," he pointed out after a while, taking his previous spot at the table. Martin passed by, but didn't join him. "Basira _did_ tell us the next couple of hours should be safe."

Martin hummed in agreement. "I didn't mean staying for long, anyway. More like... Dunno," he sighed. His eyes were wandering idly around the kitchen, searching for nothing in particular, until suddenly, something behind Jon's back caught his attention. "Tell you what," he proposed. His next words were slow, deliberate, like he had just remembered how to pronounce some of them correctly. "Let's have a cup of tea. I'll make us some, we'll sit down and drink, and when we're done, we leave."

It'd been so long since the last time they'd done that. Way too long.

"Sounds really good to me," said Jon, and _oh,_ there was that smile he remembered. The quick, slight smile he'd learned to associate with their brief tea breaks back in the day, the smile he'd missed so many times as he hadn't even lifted his eyes from whatever statement he'd been occupied with. It hadn't been until later that Jon would find himself putting his tasks aside and looking up at Martin to say thank you properly, or simply nod, or watch him disappear behind the door.

Martin circled the table to put the kettle on, and without much thinking, Jon got up to follow him.

Martin looked mildly surprised - in a good way, but still surprised. Even after everything that had happened that day, it seemed as if he hadn't considered that whatever had pushed Jon to rescue him from the Lonely could also make him want to do something as simple as keeping Martin company while he made tea. Then again, Martin had been witnessing Jon do big, reckless things for other people for about three years now. Small things, though? Those he hadn't got to see a lot of yet.

"Hey," Jon sounded like he was stating a fact.

"Hi."

"Want some help?"

It was an idiotic question, of course. Firstly, because Martin preferred to make tea himself without anyone else barging in; secondly, because it was literally just tea. Still, Jon felt like he needed to give some reason for coming closer.

"No, but thank you." Martin chose two mugs from a cupboard, grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge, and reached for a sugar bowl, carefully arranging all items before him. His movements were calm and steady, practised. Perhaps this moment actually carried some weight for him. It certainly did for Jon.

It wasn't only about the tea, really, but everything it reminded him of as well. Lunch breaks with Martin, brief conversations in-between statements, slow development of feelings he hadn't even noticed. Months of a time which hadn't been simple, yet still simpler than everything that had followed. Simple acts of kindness in the midst of emerging chaos. Memories from before the Entities, the monsterhood, and most of his scars, from back when everyone had still been alive - or at least, so Jon had thought.

"I missed this," he found himself saying. And then, because it didn't seem like enough, "I missed you."

 _I missed me as well,_ said Martin's face as he tugged at the teabag he was holding, again, and again, and again. He didn't look up to reply. "There wasn't a lot to miss, near the end."

"Well, I still did."

Martin decided not to deflate this time - Jon could tell by the way the silence filled with his steady, long inhale. "I missed you, too," he said, quietly.

_I really loved you, you know._

Jon winced at the unhelpful reminder. Of course it wasn't simple, he'd known it wasn't going to be. Maybe the definitive answers he was looking for didn't exist anymore. Or yet. Maybe this convoluted, painful tangle of Martin's feelings didn't harbour a resolution to which all loose strands led. After months and months of watching his connection to each of them weaken, it was entirely possible Martin himself couldn't make sense of the messy threads. (For obvious reasons, the temptation to Know the truth was strong, even compared to its usual intensity. For even more obvious reasons, giving in to it was out of the question.)

Still, thought Jon, right now the most important thing was that Martin was next to him - safe, calm, present, and busying himself with tea. And among all the alternative forms this afternoon could have assumed, there weren't many preferable ones.

"You seem to be feeling better than I worried you would," Jon repeated the sentiment out loud. "So soon after the Lonely, that is. I'm really glad."

It appeared that Martin didn't hear him at first, with how long he stayed silent. Jon watched him absentmindedly stir the tea he hadn't even added anything to yet. After a while, though, the rhythmic clinking stopped.

"It's taking effort to be me," he said, finally. "But I guess... Not everything is equally hard to unearth."

"I see."

"Caring comes a bit easier when you're around."

_God._

Jon didn't lose sight of the fact that right now, feeling something - anything - was quite literally saving Martin's life. And yet, still...

"Be careful what you wish for," he teased slightly. "I'm going to be around all the time now." 

"I'm serious," Martin sighed; not in an annoyed way, but in a "if I have to bully you out of saying self-depreciating things, then so be it" way.

"I know," Jon's voice grew quieter, all of a sudden. "I do take it seriously."

"Alright."

With this, Martin's attention returned to the unfinished teas, and he scooped some sugar from the sugar bowl.

"I'm making yours first," he told Jon. "You probably don't know that, but I genuinely can't even look at tea if it has sugar in it."

The corners of Jon's mouth curled up. "I really appreciate you butchering this tea for me, then."

Martin let out a quiet laugh, but sounded like he barely put a half of himself into it; the rest seemed focused on trying to remember something. His hand lingered over Jon's mug, just for a second or two, but as Jon was about to open his mouth, the crease between Martin's brows softened.

"Half sugar," he said, his words lined with a fine layer of a gentle, satisfied smile. "And not a drop of milk, even if your life depended on it. You put a slice of lemon in, though." He walked off towards the fridge. "Unless something changed?"

"No, I, uh- You really remember that..?" uttered Jon. In his mind, however, the words sounded much closer to "you really remember that, and I love it" - but he couldn't just use words like "love" out of the blue in sentences addressed to Martin now. They were going to get to Scotland safely first, and _then_ he was going to say all the things he wanted to, in a way he surely would have planned by then.

Except the thing was, when it came to his feelings, he wasn't usually one for planning in advance, was he?

"When you make the same tea enough times, it becomes impossible to forget," Martin huffed out a quiet laugh. "And I made _quite_ a few of them for you, back in the day."

"There wasn't a week without one," Jon smiled.

Maybe there was no point in waiting. Maybe saying what he wanted to say in a quiet kitchen, over two mugs of tea, was enough. When it came to telling Martin he loved him, circumstances like these certainly felt right.

And Jon wasn't really a brave person, but it didn't matter. He'd learned more than enough times that stubbornness, impulsiveness, or even desperation would also do the trick.

Martin held out the mug towards him.

"Here you go," he said. "You can sit at the table, if you like, you know. I'll be there in a second."

"It's fine." Carefully, not to burn his fingertips, Jon took the mug from his hands. "Thank you."

If Martin had any fake-exasperated, teasing remarks on how Jon was a terrible guest who sat on kitchen chairs when he was being offered the couch and _then_ stood by the kitchen counter when he was being offered chairs, this time he kept them to himself. Instead, he turned to his mug of tea again, with the same calm, carefully attentive expression as before.

He'd sometimes used to look like this when he'd been working, remembered Jon, to his surprise. (His three-years-younger self had been too busy repressing each and every positive thought about Martin, trying to keep his worldview intact, to actually notice details like this. Or so he'd thought.) And now here Martin was, wearing the exact same look, as if there was nothing different between then and now. Funny, how some things don't change.

(Funny, how some others do.)

Jon took his absent eyes off his mug, putting it down on the counter. His fingers kept fiddling with the handle - not even a nervous twitch anymore, just a habit.

"Martin?"

It was a tiny little sound. Fleeting, wavering. The exact opposite of the person it belonged to.

"Hm?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

Martin glanced up from his now-ready mug of tea. "Sure."

"It's about what you said in the Lonely."

The words earned the smallest of noises in response; something between an "oh" and a featherlight sigh.

"You know... It would be nice to say I wasn't really myself back there," Martin said, somewhat apologetically. "But a part of me was. And it thought it was right, at the time," he admitted. "It's all the Lonely needs to do sometimes, let you think you're right. Just- hm. Just thought you should know," he finished, clumsily. "What did you want to ask?"

There was a tinge of worry in Jon's voice, when he replied. Mostly, however, there was just carefulness, and gentle, quiet curiosity.

"You said you had loved me," he said. "Martin, is it-"

Jon faltered. The rest of the sentence took most of the air from his lungs and escaped with a single exhale.

"...Am I too late?"

Martin met his eyes, and god, people didn't look at Jon like this these days. They rarely even looked at him like they were glad to see him anymore, let alone...

(He got the courage up to _see_ what lay behind the way Martin looked at him, _really_ see it.)

...let alone like he was something to pull up closer, not push away. Like what people saw in him wasn't just a monster pretending to be the Jon they'd used to know, attempting some disturbing struggle against himself, some pathetic, pitiful play at humanity, care, grief... love. Like witnessing his continued existence wasn't something to feel conflicted about.

"...You're not."

Simple and practised. Effortless. True.

"I'm not," breathed Jon. A little shake of Martin's head replied, _not by a long shot_.

"I really love you, you know," he said. (And _of course_ that's how Martin told people he loved them - presenting them with a fait accompli, not a confession.)

Jon couldn't _not_ lean in.

It started as a series of careful, light touches - palms on collarbones and arms around backs and chins on shoulders and cheeks against necks - and then they were holding each other. Laying soothing touch over months, years of harm other people had left.

Jon wasn't able to pinpoint the last time he'd been touched in a way he'd allowed, save for the brief hug in the Lonely. For some, his body was just the human part of him, for others - something to hurt. It had been cut and stabbed and burned, tied to chairs and thrown into car boots, never handled with care, never held, never welcome with casual, friendly human contact. Now, weak and haggard and covered in scars, it seemed almost equally as hard to love as the person inside it.

(It wasn't entirely true, though, was it? Sunken into the hug, feeling Martin's embrace against so many of his scars, Jon discovered it became significantly harder to believe so.)

Where Jon had suffered from excess of touch, Martin had suffered from its lack. It had been too long since someone had reached out to him, offering small, grounding reminders not to fade away. There had been too few times when he’d been close enough to another person to say he’d been _with_ them.

Being touched properly, deliberately, meant being given the other’s undivided attention. It meant they were staying on purpose, and might care enough to not only meet your needs halfway, but also take a few additional steps on their own initiative.

When was the last time someone had offered that to Martin? When was the last time anyone had considered him worth making actual effort?

As Jon stood pressed against him, he knew he was the first person who'd found themselves there in a long time. He took a breath to speak, despite not having much room for it.

"Martin?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"I love you, too."

Somewhere next to his ear, Martin let out a tiny, content hum.

It was surprisingly hard to want things sometimes, thought Jon, and even harder to admit to it openly. Yet here they were, allowing every moment they spent not letting go to reaffirm that yes, they'd needed to receive this just as much as they'd been willing to give it.

When eventually they loosened the embrace, the air that snuck between them almost felt cold in comparison.

Martin looked... Jon wanted to say he had something from the old Martin in him, with his eyes slightly more lively and his face closer to its usual expressiveness, but it didn't feel quite right. The smiles he wore now were different from the ones Jon knew from the past in that currently Martin struggled much harder to keep them on his face. Some of them still seemed more like conscious choices than impulses, others - like they only occured to Martin on second thoughts. Yet there were brighter ones, too; filled with new, unfamiliar tinges related not to any hardships, but to the fact that Martin felt comfortable showing more and more of his sides to Jon.

(Like that new teasing gleam that Jon had so immediately liked. The one that Martin had in his eyes right now as he opened his mouth to speak.)

"I hate to be _that_ person," Martin said, "but we're going to waste really good tea if we don't drink it soon."

"Oh, we can't let that happen, now, can we? It's the first good tea I'll have had in months."

"That's not even funny, Jon, that's just horrendous," he declared.

The tea was still close to hot when the two of them carried the mugs over to the kitchen table. Jon lingered beside his chair for a second, then moved it closer to the corner, creating enough room on his right for another person to fill. He glanced over at Martin.

That's what they were going to be doing now, wasn't it? Learning how to occupy the other's space. Learning how to ask to have their own space occupied in return.

(Even though Martin's reaction to the invitation was subtle, it was heartbreakingly clear how unused he was to this.)

He pulled up a chair next to Jon's, but paused, standing over it, instead of sitting down. For a couple of seconds, they simply looked at each other. Jon tilted his head to the side, curiously.

"No, it's nothing, I was just-" Martin huffed out a tiny laugh, shaking his head, answering the unasked question. "...Can I kiss you?"

_Ah._

Jon felt his expression melt a little, as he let go of the back of his chair to turn to face Martin fully. The slight nod he gave him, taking a small step closer, was more than clear.

They pressed their lips together, unhurriedly. A way for them to say, _who would have guessed we'd find ourselves here one day?_ A firm seal over the words, _look where we started. Look where we are now._

It was going to become something they did now, thought Jon after they parted - sharing kisses before sitting down at the kitchen table and drinking tea, their knees bumping and their shoulders brushing. Even if the rest of their everyday reality wasn't going to be quite as domestic.

Still, they had things to hold on to.

There were conversations yet to be had. A new load of things to explain, grief to confront, harm to process and recovery to attempt, even if they couldn't be certain how much time they'd get to try it.

(There was an opportunity to let some wounds try to heal, even if it had taken a long time to get it.)

There were bags sitting in the hallway, Daisy's car parked in the street, and a safehouse waiting in Scotland.

(There were slices of life almost out of reach of even the most overwhelming of problems.)

There was a small fifth floor flat, two mugs of warm tea, and two men in love with each other.

(Because there was no such thing as an unlovable person, no matter what.)

It wasn't much.

(It was _everything_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a reference to a quote from 'When Harry Met Sally' (I haven't even watched this movie but This Quote is. so good).
> 
> I want to say a big thank you to that tiny handful of friends to whom I mentioned writing this and who were super supportive, but the biggest shout-out goes to the friend who beta read this for me and left absolutely amazing feedback that kept me grinning all day - you are an absolute treasure ♡
> 
> Anyways, thank you so, so much for reading! Find me on Tumblr at [@elven-child](https://elven-child.tumblr.com/) :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story wasn't even supposed to have a continuation, but the first part got frankly mind-blowing reception which turned out to be a huge motivator to work on a leftover idea (thank you all so much!!), not to mention that as the ending of TMA draws closer, my thoughts couldn't help but return to the safehouse over and over (what else is new). I hope you enjoy this part as well!

They kept learning each other, and Jon was finding himself feeling more human than he had in months. The impression's comforting persistence, albeit subtle, was clear enough not to go unnoticed. It grew with every conversation, every new fact about Martin which meant nothing to the Archivist, but everything to Jon. He felt it in each question asked because he wanted to know, not Know; every question asked for Martin's sake only. It was present in questions without a purpose, from which no knowledge was gained, and those not asked at all. And maybe most of all, in questions he answered.

They kept learning each other, and one day Jon realised that it must have been making Martin feel more human too. There was something poetic to be said about a simple conversation between two people being a choice against both the Lonely and the Eye at the same time, he supposed. But then Jon wasn't the poet in this relationship, was he? Still, he knew when to appreciate that every now and then, life wrote a couple of artful lines of its own.

They kept learning each other, and letting themselves be learned right back. It felt entirely new, yet not at all unfamiliar - it was saying, 'this is who I am when I'm not close to my worst' rather than 'let me show you the actual, real me'.

They kept learning each other. After all, they'd started a long time ago.

* * *

"Do you want to switch?"

Martin flinched at the sudden question breaking through the steady hum of the engine. He shook off the tired, gentle silence which had stubbornly muted every conversation they'd started in the car, with both of them too washed-up to resist it.

"It's okay, thanks," he assured.  


"You've been driving for a long time."

Martin glanced away from the road, eyeing Jon with an unconvinced expression.

"No offence, but you still look like hell."  


"No offence, but so do you," Jon huffed out with a laugh.

He could be stubborn; except, of course, this particular relationship had a higher-than-average amount of incurably stubborn people. Which was to say the two of them were often stubborn enough for five.

"Really, I'm fine."  


"Right," Jon's voice was serious. The kind of serious that was clearly too deliberate to mean actual seriousness, and was instead the first sign of a teasing remark that was about to follow. "I'm just saying it would be a shame if after all this we died in a car crash because driving across the whole country right after escaping from a literal fear hell caused you to collapse behind the wheel."

"It sure would," Martin agreed, nodding.  


"Martin..."

"But that's just a usual Tuesday in the life of a Magnus Institute employee, isn't it? Wake up at seven thirty, get thrown into hell at eleven, escape and run away at twelve, turn running away into eloping at one, have a cup of tea in the meantime, cause a car crash at six."

Jon actually laughed under his breath at that. He tried to insist further, of course - he wouldn't be himself if he didn't. But seeing how Martin seemed exceptionally unwilling to be convinced to rest anytime soon, he eventually decided against it. Jon gave his arm a light squeeze to let him know he was yielding, and turned to his window.

For the past hour, the terrain around them had been rising steadily, its curves growing sharper and more defined even as their silhouettes softened against the darkening evening sky. The Scottish border can't have been further than another half-hour's ride away. Which meant they were already halfway to Daisy's safehouse.

Staring out, Jon almost missed the heavy exhale coming from the driver's seat.

"All right, we'll switch," Martin sighed. "When we find a service area, or somewhere else where we can pull over."   


His face was drawn in what could best be described as reluctance, though. Jon took a second to consider it before risking a ginger "sure".

"But, Jon?" added Martin. The words came more quietly than before.

"Yes?"

"Can you- I think I'm going to need you to talk to me while you drive."

Jon couldn't help but frown. Some part of him wondered why Martin had found it hard to ask him for this.

"I mean, of course," he said. Probably a moment too late for the preceding pause not to become obvious. If Martin noticed, though, he didn't show it. "Listen, is... is everything okay?"

And at that, it felt like Martin stopped pretending it was. The look he sent Jon was wearier than any other he had sent him earlier, and his eyes seemed to have lost some of the resolve present in them throughout the journey.

"Honestly?" he sighed. "Focusing on the road has been a nice distraction from... well, next to everything right now. It's, uh- it's not the best time to be alone with my thoughts, you know."

 _ Ah.  _ Of course.

"I'm sorry," said Jon. His searching eyes, currently filled with concern, hadn't left Martin's face for a while now. "I didn't realise."

"I know, I- You have nothing to apologise for, Jon."

"If it helps that much, we don't-"

"No, you were right." Martin shook his head. "I really should take a break. But I'll be fine. We'll chat and I'll be okay."

"All right," Jon agreed with a sigh. "...All right."

It took another fifteen minutes for them to drive past a sign announcing an upcoming service area, and soon, Martin was pulling up to a nearly entirely vacant parking lot. They walked out into crisp and chilly air hitting them with waves of gentle, evening wind.

"This is nice," Jon heard to his right, and he had to agree.

But they weren't here for a longer break - just switching places and driving on. They circled the car, pausing for a brief embrace as they passed each other halfway, for no reason other than the still-lingering relief which had come with being hundreds of miles away from the Institute, together, and close enough to safe.

When Martin's door shut behind him, Jon was already scrupulously adjusting the driver's seat and all the mirrors.

"It won't get straighter from glaring at it, you know," chuckled Martin, pushing his own seat back.

"Doesn't hurt to try." Jon repositioned the rearview mirror yet again. Finally satisfied with the result, he started the car, taking one more look at Martin as he did. "So, what did you want to talk about?" he asked carefully.

Martin replied with a small, tired shake of his head.

"I... I was thinking about just anything, really," he said. As if not to let the silence settle, though, he soon added, "But we do have quite a lot of catching up to do from... you know."

"We do, don't we?" murmured Jon. There were so many things which they'd never got to tell the other, and which demanded to finally be let out in the open. Except dwelling on them now was the last thing either of them needed. Jon buckled his seat belt and looked around before pulling out of the parking spot, wondering. "You know... There actually is one thing I've really wanted to ask you about," he said, finally.

Martin looked at him, expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. The corners of Jon's mouth twitched up.

"I'd _love_ to hear about this new boyfriend of yours."

He smiled as the car was filled with Martin's laughter.

* * *

"Are you asleep?"

The silence filling the bedroom stirred, only to effortlessly regain its balance the moment the words left Jon's mouth.  As far as he was concerned, his whispered question might have been the loudest sound in miles.

Maybe it really was. Back in London, the nightly silence was never deep, just like the sky was never truly dark. Here, the world fell asleep along with its people, because there were no restless souls to stay awake for. 

Aside from Jon, of course.

He turned to his other side for god knows which time that night, once again wrapping the duvet tighter around himself.

The sheets and covers smelled of dust and stale air. Jon and Martin hadn't even pretended to bother with them after they'd arrived, leaving all cleaning, laundering and unpacking for the next day. They'd shaken off the duvets and pillows and hoped it would be enough not to suffocate in their sleep. All they'd been able to get themselves to do after that was taking showers and crawling into bed next to each other.

Now, despite everything - despite being on the run, not knowing what was happening to Daisy and Basira, and not knowing what Elias was planning - Jon had to admit it was the calmest night he'd had in... he didn't even want to try to remember when. If he were to guess, it might as well have been the night before he'd taken the statement of Naomi Herne. Though of course, he would give a lot to be able to only live through one nightmare a night these days.

Still. Lying in bed, in a house at the other side of the country from the Institute, with Martin safe and sleeping soundly within arm's reach, compared to all the nights spent in the Archives...

The Archives had never felt safe, even more so after Jon had woken up from the coma, but the rest of the world had been no safer. For the past six months Jon had had to settle for spending nights alone and avoided, deep in the eerily quiet Archives which had always seemed content to take their Archivist in where he had belonged. He would fall asleep knowing that the second he drifted off, he'd be greeted by the all-too-familiar, pleading faces, and he would wake up hurting with the knowledge that a part of him enjoyed seeing them.  All the while the very place that had led him there became the closest thing to what he could call home, simply because he had nowhere else to be. 

("Home sweet home," Martin had said as Jon had parked the car in front of the house. And it was good to think that's what it was. Jon himself was more than ready to start calling this place home without a second thought, and he was sure Martin was, too.)

Tonight Jon was away from the Archives. Tonight Martin was lying maybe a foot away with his cheek pressed into his pillow, his soft puffs of breath calm and even. They both had each other to fall asleep next to, and then to smile at and spend the day with after they woke up.

Jon took another glance at Martin. Martin, who felt safe enough with Jon to fall asleep next to him, to become defenceless next to him. Who else would bring themselves to do that these days? But then Martin had always been braver than people assumed. 

With Martin sleeping, Jon's question remained unanswered, but it was alright, he thought, closing his eyes. They could talk in the morning.

They had time.

* * *

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

Jon looked up from the plate he was washing, meeting Martin's eyes.  


"I thought you wanted to clean up the house after breakfast?" he asked.  


"Yeah, but... we can do that later today," Martin said. He nodded towards the kitchen window as he returned to drying the dishes Jon had washed. "It's quite nice outside."

The weather was far from what Jon, brought up in Bournemouth, was used to calling nice. Admittedly, the day was comfortably chilly instead of outright cold and damp, but the sky was entirely covered by thick, grey clouds.

Jon added another item to his 'New Martin Facts' list.

"Sure," he said, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips. God, he was so unused to this. He handed Martin the last of the plates to dry, and turned off the tap. "Sure, let's go."

They grabbed their jackets and their scarves and walked out to the tiny porch, where for a while Jon struggled with the resistant lock as he closed the front door. When he turned away, Martin's outstretched hand was already waiting for his. Just another one of the things they got to try out together for the first time.

In the light of day, they could finally take a proper look at their closest neighbourhood. There was a small village nearby, for a start. As far as Jon could say, it couldn't have been further than a mile down the hill. On the opposite side of the house, there was nothing but fields - or rather pastures, considering the fence stretching maybe a hundred meters away and a small herd of cows grazing in the distance.

Jon tilted his head. "So _that's_ who didn't let me fall back asleep in the morning."

"I'd say it's not that bad, as far as neighbours go," decided Martin. "Come on." He led Jon towards the fence, and for a while, they walked along the pasture's border in silence, simply taking in the view. It took a few minutes for Martin to speak again.

"Hey, Jon?" he asked, somewhat tentatively.

"Yes?"

"I just thought... Do you want to hear the whole story with Peter now?"

"I- Now? I mean, well, yes. If you..?" He left the sentence unfinished.  


"Yeah, it's okay," assured Martin. "Yesterday... yesterday we just had more urgent stuff to deal with, and I was still exhausted." He shrugged. " _And_ it was going to be hard to explain why I did it without admitting I'm in love with you, but that, hm- that stopped being an issue really quickly, didn't it," he said through a small laugh. 

Jon couldn't say he wasn't somewhat struggling to connect the facts.

"Right," Martin said, noticing his expression. "From the beginning."

There were a few seconds of silence as he seemed to be bracing himself to start. Jon caught himself staring in anticipation - not in the Archivist way, but still _very_ intently. He turned his head away.

"You know why... you know why I agreed to work for him," Martin said, finally. "I really need you to understand that back then- well, I suppose you already do understand. Back then it was... _good_ to think I kept working for him to keep him away from the others. Looking back... I don't know." He sighed. "I don't know."

"I do understand."

"Yeah." Martin's voice was sad as he nodded. "I'm sorry you do."

"I'm sorry you do, too."

They walked in silence as Martin was once again taking a few seconds before carrying on with the story.

"It was going on for two months, I think," he said eventually. "Just... working for Peter and telling myself there was a bigger reason for why I was doing it. And then- and then you woke up." A small, somewhat pained smile made its way through his heavy tone. "I heard about it accidentally, really. You caused quite a fuss in the Archives. Georgie was with you when it happened, apparently, and she came to the Institute and told Melanie. But Melanie, she... uh-"

"I know how she was back then," assured Jon.

"Yeah," Martin replied, noncommittally. "Yeah. So it was only Basira who went with Georgie to get you from the hospital. Not long after that, I heard that... you were back in the Archives. Just like that. As if you'd never left. I didn't actually see you until you accidentally found me that one time, but... you were passing by near my office once. Talking to someone. You sounded..." He let out another one of those sad little laughs. "I don't know. Busy. A bit annoyed. And I... I heard you through my door," he said like it explained everything. Because it did, really.

And yet there were still things Jon didn't understand.

"Why didn't you come back too?"

It was a plea, more than a question. A confused, weary plea for a chance to make sense of a past hurt.

"I didn't want to see someone hurt you again." Martin's words were slow, deliberate, filled with emotions that had never quite left. "Jon... Peter would have been taking things out on you - especially if he'd lost his really promising assistant to you along the way. Or he might have noticed that _you_ would have made a good target for the Lonely as well. Or- I don't know, he might have done something entirely else. One way or another, it wouldn't have been anything good. I stayed with him to stay in control."

"Martin..." Pleading again. "What if it hadn't gone as planned? What if- what if you'd never come back?" ("Did you really risk so much for _me_?" was what Jon didn't add.)

"You can talk," Martin said, attempting a smile and failing.

Jon didn't reply. He noticed Martin sending him an uncertain look, but stayed quiet, giving him space to tell whatever was left of the story.  


"That's pretty much it, really," Martin said. "There was just... Peter started talking about the Extinction at some point. I guess it sounded serious at first, but... it was never really about that, I figured it out after some time. Didn't change much, though." 

"How so?"

"Because..." Martin's voice wavered. "Because after all, he was right to choose me as a target. A real bull's-eye if I've ever seen one. Sometimes- sometimes it was really hard to tell if I stayed away because it was for the best or because I wanted to. Even now it's... I'm not sure. Maybe it was somewhere in-between the whole time." He shook his head. Jon waited for him to collect his thoughts again, but Martin just turned to him and sighed,  "That's the whole story."

There was a while of silence which Jon was desperate to fill. Not a single word he could think of seemed fit to it.

"Martin, I- don't know what to say," he spoke eventually. He didn't mean to make it sound so clearly like he was asking for help with the answer, but there he was.

"I don't know either," Martin said quietly. "Maybe just say it was worth it."

"Worth i-?" Jon's words died in his throat as he looked at Martin, helplessly. "I mean, it certainly worked, in a way. Worrying about you served as a _really_ good distraction from my... _identity crisis_ more than once, you know. And yes, you definitely took Lukas' attention off me, and god knows what would have happened if he'd decided to add _his_ two pennies' worth to the whole thing. But was it all worth seven months of you suffering with no help? I ca- I don't- I have no idea what to say to this."

"I understand."

"I guess I- I don't know. Hold on." He tugged at Martin's hand to stop him and stood face to face with him. "Thank you. I'm really- thank you for doing that for me, for- for considering me worthy of doing it. _Thank you_ ," he repeated. "But please don't sacrifice yourself like this for me ever again."

"Because that right is reserved for you only?" Martin asked, but there was no bitterness to his words. Just weariness.

"No, because- you know why."

"I know," he said. "But _you_ know sacrifices don't always work like this."

Jon hummed in something intended as agreement, because what could he say to this, really. "I suppose there's no way I can reply to this that won't make me sound like a hypocrite."

"I can't think of anything," replied Martin, allowing a tiny, playful smile onto his face. Jon couldn't help but return it.

He raised his free arm to wrap it around Martin's back, bringing him in for a quick, careful embrace.

"Thank you for telling me," he said as he pulled back.

"Sure." Martin sighed, and Jon was glad to note it seemed to sound like relief. "Sure. I think I needed it too."

"All right."

"But just so you know, unfortunately my very busy schedule has no free spots for serious conversations until at least next week."

"That's really convenient, actually," Jon said, picking up Martin's half-serious tone.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes, because mine doesn't either."

"Convenient indeed," decided Martin.

Jon smiled and tugged at his hand, and they carried on with their walk.

* * *

"Do you even drink coffee?"

From the opposite side of the aisle, Jon looked over at Martin, who was examining two different jars of instant coffee.

For yet another time that day, he couldn't shake off the thought that it felt ridiculous - walking around the small grocery shop and asking, "What do you usually eat?" and "What can you cook?". It felt ridiculous to have to do that with someone who was your partner, for god's sake.  


Annoyingly enough, it also meant that Jon had spent the last hour with Peter Lukas' words from the Lonely replaying in his head over and over again. He didn't actually think Lukas had been right, thank you very much - or rather, he thought Lukas had been right, but in a completely wrong way. It was just irritating to realise that something in his words had got to Jon more than he would expect.

What Jon and Martin did and did not know about each other was nobody's business but their own. It was easy to mock the amount of time they'd actually spent together, or the amount of relatively normal conversations they'd had, Jon knew that. Just as well as he knew what Lukas had been trying to accomplish by doing so. Still, Jon couldn't stop some sort of protective anger from resurfacing at the memory of everything they'd been through, together or not, being downplayed. And by an avatar of the Lonely, of all people. 

They knew enough about each other. And what they didn't know, they were slowly, consistently catching up on. 

Jon became aware he'd spent a lot of time not answering a very simple question. Martin was no longer occupied with the coffee jars, instead scanning Jon's face with a questioning expression.  


"I know that look," he declared. "What's wrong?"

"Hm? Ah, no, it's- it's nothing." Jon's thoughts were taking a while to come back to the real world again. "Don't worry about it."  


Martin put the jars of coffee back into place and tilted his head at Jon. "Come on, I can see that something's up."

"I just remembered something."

"Alright," said Martin. His tone implied he assumed Jon was going to elaborate, though. After a few seconds of expectant silence, Jon gave in with a sigh.  


"I remembered that when I was looking for you in the Lonely, Lukas said that one thing to me…"

The words got a nod of understanding from Martin. It was an all-too-familiar kind of story for him, after all.  


"…and I was thinking how much I don’t agree with it," finished Jon.  


Martin actually laughed at that, startling an elderly lady standing nearby. "Excuse me, excuse me, ma'am. Sorry, Jon, I just… it's certainly  _ some _ way to pass the time. Aggressively not agreeing with something."

"Well, some like poetry, some like steeping in old grudges."  


"We all need a hobby," agreed Martin with a solemn nod. His teasing smile was soon chased away by a frown, though. "What did he even say?"

Jon's expression turned more serious as well. "You want to know?"

"I mean, I'm kind of curious what it was that you're still thinking about it now."

"I- Fair enough," Jon had to admit. "It was..." he sighed. "It was something along the lines of... 'you're not the people the other thinks he loves', and 'all you ever did together was trying not to die, do you even know each other', et cetera, et cetera."

He glanced away from the shelf with coffee jars, which had been his main point of focus while he'd talked. Martin seemed to be considering his words.

"That's a…  _ bold _ thing to say to someone who kind of knows things for a living," he said eventually, a familiar, half-serious note present in his voice. Neither of them commented on the fact that a couple of days ago, Martin had considered the same thing. And for a while, he had even agreed with it. "Besides, Peter couldn’t recognise a genuinely friendly human interaction if it hit him in the face with a brick. Which is really sad, of course, when you think about it," he added on principle, "but you know. Doesn't make it all any less... well, bullshit."

"I know," agreed Jon. "It's just getting on my nerves."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

It seemed to close the conversation, but when Martin's eyes wandered to the shelves again, they still seemed focused on something entirely else.

"It's kind of funny, though," he said after a while.

Jon tilted his head, genuine puzzlement clear on his face. "Do enlighten me."

"I mean, how often do you get the opportunity to learn if someone even likes coffee _after_ you start literally living with them?"

"Oh, well. Depends on how bad you are at small talk, I suppose," he shrugged, the corners of his lips curling up at the small 'oh my god, Jon' it got from Martin. "And to finally answer your question, I don't drink coffee."

"Got it. No need for coffee in this household, then." Martin's eyes lowered to the ground, scanning the contents of both of their shopping baskets. "All right, I guess that's it. I don't think there's any spot left in this shop that we haven't stopped at at least three times anyway."

"Sounds about right," agreed Jon as they headed towards the checkout counter. "Let's go home."

* * *

"So what do you think?"

There was an absent-minded "hmm?" from Jon - a sign that he acknowledged the sound as directed at him, but didn’t really hear the words. He was sitting there, cross-legged, at the opposite end of Daisy’s tired couch, and the only sign of life he gave was the regular flipping of page after page as he tore through one of the books he'd chosen at Martin's place. He seemed determined to devour the whole book in one afternoon, despite Martin's attempts to convince him that books of poetry are not meant to be _devoured_ , they're meant to be savoured. But Jon would be damned if he didn't try to do things his own way.  


Martin stretched out his leg, giving Jon's knee a light nudge.  "Earth to Jonathan Sims."

"Hm, yes?" His face turned slightly towards Martin, though it took another couple of seconds for his eyes to come unstuck from the page too.

"I'm curious if you like the book."

"Right now I'm more interested in finding out why  _ you _ like it, to be honest."

Martin clicked his tongue, although he wasn't actually irritated. "You can just say no, you know," he said. There was no bite behind the words.  


Jon tilted his head. "Wh- Ah, no, it's not- I mean, it's rather good? I think. Objectively speaking. It's just not something I would have guessed you like."

"You- Really?"

"I may be wrong, of course," he added, leafing through the book. "But it... I don't know, it doesn't make me think of... it's just not really like you."

It was so relievingly hard to feel Lonely with him, Martin thought. And all Jon needed to do was be himself.

He supposed it was sort of poetic that the person he loved was such a glaringly clear opposite of the Lonely, of the sad, self-destructive indulgences which had turned out to come to him much more easily than he'd expected over the past year. He could still feel their featherlight grasp on him, of course, even after everything that had happened. Stepping out of the Lonely and stepping back into the world were not exactly the same. But Jon made both of them easier.

The thing was, after the Lonely it hadn't been difficult for Martin to notice people around him anew - or maybe knowing he wasn't alone had never been hard in the first place. But the Lonely did not always care about making its victims feel _alone_. Sometimes all it took was making sure that other people seemed painfully real, as opposed to oneself. And so, one of the harder parts of reentering the world was relearning to notice _yourself_ \- to believe that you are just as real to others as they are to you. That you take up more space than the confined bubble of here and now, of your body, of your mind - that your presence reaches out and extends to minds and memories of many. And with those countless anchors grounding you to the world, confirming your existence in hundreds of times and places, you cannot ever truly vanish.

With Jon repeatedly proving how constant Martin's presence in his thoughts was, it was easier to remember about it.

"You could just ask me what I think," noted Martin.  


Jon might not have looked like the thought had never crossed his mind, but judging by his expression, describing it this way wouldn't have been too big a stretch. Then again, Martin said it more to tease than anything else; he knew Jon enjoyed not knowing things _yet_ as he solved them just as much as he liked getting his answers.  


"I mean..." There was a pause as Jon considered the words. "I assume I would have asked you after finishing? But you know me. I wanted to try to figure it out myself first."

"I know," Martin said. "I know."

('You know me' coming from Jon couldn't have been anything else than a conscious choice of words. And in Martin's affirmative reply, certainty mixed with trust.)

"Either way, if you happen to find out any of my deepest, darkest secrets from what you see there, let me know," he added.  


"Oh, I definitely will."

Martin's look lingered on Jon for a few seconds before returning to his own book waiting on his lap. He rested his eyes somewhere between the lines, not reading, instead thinking about the time he had bought the collection Jon was so determined to decipher. It had been one of those rare occasions when he'd had money to spare, so he'd decided to treat himself to something nice. He'd chosen this book of poetry and, like Jon had said, it had been objectively quite good. Most of the pieces had been nice to read, but hadn't exactly spoken to Martin, although there had been a handful he had really liked.  


And right there was the whole point, wasn't it? Jon had no way to lowercase-know any of this. He just knew Martin well enough for his guess to be mostly right, and was curious enough about what Martin saw in the poems to want to know for sure. He was curious enough about _Martin_ to want to ask.

Martin supposed it would make more sense if he was scared of it, after everything that had happened. The thought of someone genuinely wanting to know him had every right to be terrifying. It had used to be sort of a bitter thing, once - people only noticing who he was when he was anxious or scared or non-confrontational. People underestimating him. People's eyes sliding off him because while he was always nice enough to have a small talk with, they didn't suppose there was too much in there that was worth their attention.

Then it had turned out to be useful. And then he'd got too used to it. Comfortable, even. Now, a year later, it would be nothing but logical if coming out of hiding required all sorts of effort.  


And maybe with any other person that would be the case. But Martin had spent too much time wanting this kind of connection with Jon for the feeling not to come out to the surface with practised ease. Not now, when Jon was reaching out to him more than ever, and Martin could finally answer. 

In the Lonely, Jon had made attention feel unthreatening again. With each passing day, Martin was more and more confident in calling it comforting.

And it felt good, he thought, glancing up at the reading Jon once more. 

It felt really, really good. 

* * *

"So how was it?"

"Just a minute," asked Martin, stepping inside the house. He was vigorously rubbing his hands, pink from the evening cold, seemingly not about to remove his scarf or jacket anytime soon. "Hot tea first, questions later."

"Sure." Jon closed the front door behind him. (He closed the front door behind his _boyfriend_ who came back _home_ to him. The feeling had quickly become one of Jon's favourites.) "I've just made one for myself, the water should still be hot enough," he said, heading towards the kitchen.

"Be right there." Martin thanked him with a smile.

Once they were both sat on the couch, each holding a mug of tea, Jon decided to start the conversation once again. In his mind, curiosity and worry mixed in equal measure.

"Martin..." He paused for a moment. Whatever Martin had learned from the phone call, it wasn't going to be comforting news. "Was Basira-" No, it was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't okay. "...How was she?"

There was a moment of hesitation, as if Martin was considering how to best phrase his reply. In the end, he simply shook his head and said, "She just sounded tired."

Jon nodded, letting out a vague hum in response.

"Daisy's nowhere to be seen, so Basira stays at the Institute pretty much all the time. Watching over the situation and such," continued Martin. "Apparently the police aren't about to let it all go anytime soon, especially since Elias _still_ hasn't deigned to show up again, so everyone at the Institute is on edge."

"You'd think that by now everyone would get used to the police storming the place once every few months." Jon punctuated the last words with a humourless laugh.

"Yeah..." Martin's voice was even emptier. He took a sip of his tea, letting the obviously hard conversation start quietly fading away before it managed to properly unfold. "Ah, also- Basira said she hasn't been able to get any statements for you yet. But she's trying."

"All right," Jon sighed. "...All right."

He looked up to find Martin's concerned eyes searching his face.

"Are you...?"

"I'm fine," assured Jon. "Still fine. I just can't be sure how long it'll last."

"We'll figure something out if we have to. You'll be okay." Martin always said it like it would be easy. They both knew it wouldn't, but with Jon's worries often bordering on catastrophic instead of simply pessimistic, he had discovered he really needed the counterbalance. Looking at Martin, he forced himself to smooth his frown away. "Anyway, that's pretty much all Basira said."

"It could have been worse, I suppose," decided Jon. "And did she... know anything about Melanie? How she's doing?"

"I... didn't actually think to ask, but she didn't mention anything."

"Hm." Jon's half-present eyes were fixed somewhere inside his mug. "Melanie probably wouldn't want me knowing too much about her anyway."

Martin tactfully didn't agree with the obvious. "But you said she's with Georgie, isn't she?" he said instead. "So she'll be fine."

Jon nodded, his expression still pensive. It was true, he was certain of it, and that was why his question hadn't really come from a place of actual worry about either Melanie or Georgie. It was more about the fact that he wanted them to be all right and wished he could _know_ for sure if they were.

"Georgie's good at... she's a very grounding presence," he said, seemingly out of nowhere, as he came out of his thoughts. "It's good for Melanie to have that now, I think. We... sometimes I feel like we have more in common than either of us would like to admit." He laughed under his breath. "Maybe Georgie just has a type. Which would be... stubborn, sarcastic and traumatised, apparently."

"Oh my god, Jon."

"Just joking." He put his free hand up in defence, the corners of his mouth curling up as he did. "Well, partially. Either way, I actually think you'd get on really well with her."

There was more to the topic than Jon had expected, as it turned out. What his half-serious, half-bantering remark got from Martin instead of the usual, equally teasing eye roll, was an unconvinced hum, followed by a moment of genuine consideration of what Jon had said.

"What is it?"  


"I mean, ah, I met her once, actually."

"Really?" Jon frowned, his memories running back through the previous months. "When I- at the hospital?"

"No, no." Martin shook his head. "Two months ago, maybe? She was picking Melanie up from the Institute and accidentally found me instead."

"Ah."  


"We didn't... uh, we didn't exactly have the nicest of conversations, though," he said, seeming somewhat at fault. "We talked about why you two weren't talking anymore and... She was standing up for Melanie and I was standing up for you, and we got a tiny bit defensive on behalf of both of you, I suppose, and- well."  


"I see," Jon said quietly, the image of Martin defending him to Georgie lingering in his mind. Hearing more and more details about everything that had happened to Martin after the Unknowing, about everything he did while staying in the Lonely's grasp, wasn't about to stop hurting for a long time to come. Probably ever.

"She recognised me, though," Martin added. He was wearing an expression Jon had seen a few times already - the one that always accompanied Martin recounting things which had taken place somewhere within the past seven months, and being suddenly confronted with emotions he hadn't fully processed when they'd actually happened. This time, though, instead of the all-too-familiar regret, the expression was tinged with gentle surprise. "She actually said you'd used to talk about me quite a lot."

Jon looked up at him, lowering his mug from his lips and nearly bumping it into his leg.

"I- God, she really- uh." He put the mug away, checking his clothes for tea stains. "She really hands out this kind of information much more easily than I ever would."

Martin winced. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's-" Jon frowned, waving away whatever he was going to say. "I mean, there's no point in dwelling on it now, I suppose. It's hardly the most... emotionally exposing thing you know about me anyway. Yes, I know, I know," his voice lost most of its bitter undertones at Martin's reaction to his wording. "One way or another, what she said was true."

The gently surprised expression returned to Martin's face as he seemed to consider something. "She recognised me on sight, you know," he said, somewhat amazed by the meaning of his own words. "You must have been talking about me quite a lot."  


He had. And he had spent quite a long time lingering over confronting the reason why it had felt nice to share conversations about Martin with someone who had been willing to listen. Just like Georgie had been.

"I... You know I tend to do that when something- someone, in this case... well. Catches my interest."

"And I- 'caught your interest' back _then_?"

"Yes."  


"But it's been so long." There was a sort of sadness in Martin's voice. Not a grudge, though - it was sadness _for_ Jon. "I'm just- Sorry, I'm just replaying the last one and a half years with this in mind, and... it's kind of a lot. It was right after Leitner, I mean-"

"Yes." Quieter, this time. But Jon didn't stop at this, despite how much easier it would have been. Martin deserved to know. He deserved the effort it took to open up about it. "I suppose... I've never really told you how much all the, the lunch breaks and cups of tea and just talking _really_ meant to me," he said. "You were... so persistent with it. And genuine. For some reason, nothing seemed able to drive you away." It was all so clear in retrospect, so painfully clear. "It made me want to believe you were honest. It made me want to feel that I could be honest with you too, as much as I allowed myself to be with anyone at the time. It could have been only you and no-one else, I think. I would have been glad enough. But the whole process of... noticing all that, and then letting myself accept that was- it was complicated. For many reasons. And it didn't help that there was always some danger looming over us all, always something urgent to take care of. Maybe I should just be glad it didn't take me even longer," he finished with a small, hollow laugh.

"Jon, it's not-" Martin protested immediately at the self-deprecating remark, but the sentence died halfway. He looked up from his mug, where his eyes had been fixed while Jon had been talking, and sighed. "No, I'm... I'm sorry it was so hard for you."

"I know."

"And thank you... thank you for telling me. Really. I know you don't find it easy."

Jon nodded, just once. There was no point in making a fuss out of it.

"But Jon... don't look at me like this."

"Like what?"

"You have such guilt on your face. Like you don't see _me_ , you only see what you did wrong regarding me."

"I... It's not entirely like this," Jon said. A barely noticeable pause later, he added, "I didn't think you could see it." 

Martin tilted his head. "That's not the point, Jon."

"I know, it's just-" He sighed, frustrated at the words that wouldn't come to him easily when he actually needed it. "It's hard... When I still see you unlearning the Lonely every day, and then suddenly we start talking about the past, it's hard not to think about how much I contributed to you being drawn to the Lonely in the first place... over all that time."

"You're so self-centered," said Martin, his voice soft and gently teasing. "I'm not sure you contributed to it half as much as you think. There was... quite a long time when I'd say my feelings for you were stopping me from becoming Lonely _sooner_ , you know. And your most notable contribution to pushing me _towards_ the Lonely was literally _dying_. Which I'm sure you would have chosen not to do if you'd had any say in the matter."

"Still." Jon was stubborn. "There were many times when I should have been better to you."

"Most people could say that to... well, most people," Martin replied a bit clumsily.

"You know that's not what I mean."

"I know." Martin sighed. "But I'd like you to be with me here and now, Jon. Not in the past," he said. "I mean, of course the way you processed all that stress wasn't always _nice_ , but I haven't been holding a grudge to this day. I don't think any of us were our best selves at the Archives. Sasha, maybe, but only because she didn't get to live to see most of all those things happen. And it's not like we'll ever know for sure. Besides, this job was quite literally _designed_ to mess us up from the beginning."

"To put it mildly."

Martin let out a tired laugh. "Yeah. To put it mildly."

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm really sorry for that."

"I know, Jon."

"And I love you."

"I know," repeated Martin, even more gently. "I love you, too."  He put his mug down and shifted around, leaning in to pull Jon into an embrace.

They kept learning each other, and it kept feeling good, thought Jon as he put his arms around Martin. It had taken effort, of course, saying everything he'd said today - it wasn't the first time it had happened, and it surely wasn't the last. What had changed, though, was that for those last few days Jon had been feeling like he finally didn't have to fight for an opportunity to make it. And he couldn't help thinking that after all the time he and Martin had spent trying to find each other despite the circumstances, it was about time they'd got a proper chance.

They kept learning each other, and it kept feeling good. For as long as they had any say in the matter, it wasn't going to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Once again I want to thank my friends who kept supporting me throughout the process of writing this chapter, but the biggest shoutout goes to my wonderful beta [@svogliata-mente](https://svogliata-mente.tumblr.com/), whose constant feedback, advice and enthusiasm were the source of half of my motivation to write. I can't thank you enough ♡
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [@elven-child](https://elven-child.tumblr.com/)! :)


End file.
